


April Violets (Five First Kisses)

by athousandvictories



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, but SCREW OFF Canon, here is all the affection Merlin ought to have been showered with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandvictories/pseuds/athousandvictories
Summary: Merlin's journey to his last first kiss, or five stories of new beginnings.A set of behind-the-scenes moments beginning before Merlin goes to Camelot. Vaguely canon compliant until the end. Plenty of drunken idiocy and poorly executed flirtation. Because we deserve it.
Relationships: Freya/Merlin (Merlin), Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Lancelot/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Will (Merlin)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 331
Collections: The Merlin/Arthur Kiss Fest 2019





	April Violets (Five First Kisses)

**Author's Note:**

> The five parts are connected only very tenuously, so skip to pairings you like if that is your wish! They are helpfully labeled (Merthur is last).
> 
> Poem: Spring by Alfred Lord Tennyson  
> Portraits by [kritastrophe](https://kritastrophe.tumblr.com/)

_Dip down upon the northern shore,  
O sweet new-year, delaying long:  
Thou dost expectant Nature wrong;  
Delaying long, delay no more._

+

+

  
Merlin scowls when he hears a set of knocks. The tapping, increasing steadily in volume, has a distinct idiocy to it; he is certain it belongs to Will. Will does not deserve to be let in, so Merlin does not go to the door. 

Merlin and Will had grown up sneaking loaves from each other's lunches, arguing over whether prized marbles had been rightfully won, and sulking when the other refused to play a game he’d agreed to beforehand. Such fights are the arena of little boys, and Merlin had expected them to provide some kind of insurance against future spats, as if he and Will had fought as many times as two people possibly could and exhausted all the possibilities. 

He hadn’t counted on Will finding infinite ways to be a prick, but Merlin is fifteen summers old, and above indulging in petty disagreements, so he lets the knocking continue in a series of crescendos, separated by pauses for Will to rest his knuckles. At this point Will's knuckles must be very sore, but Merlin is not concerned with that until he hears his mother sigh from the far side of the room.

Hunith is mending something complicated, her lap covered in fabric. Merlin knows it's all that stops her from intervening to save the door. The poor door has served them well, and it doesn’t deserve to be viciously pummeled.

“Merlin?” She casts a pleading look at him as she says it. 

Merlin can ignore his mother easily, but he can never refuse her, so he goes sulking to the door. He increases his glower as he opens it, for Will’s benefit.

“Oh!” Will says, and he _should_ be surprised at his success, since they’d had a shouting match on this same threshold only yesterday, with Hunith sending concerned looks in their direction all through it.

Merlin had flung himself into bed straightaway afterward, and been forced to stay there; it would have even more humiliating to get up and admit to the obvious—that he was motivated by a tantrum instead of fatigue. His mother had been too polite to bring it up, but he knows she’d noticed, and looking at Will’s flushed face brings back the buzz of flustered feelings.

“Merlin, would you... listen, I’m sorry, and I... would you just come out here, with me?”

Merlin wants to refuse. It won’t make Will leave, though, and this is already embarrassing, this _thing_ they’re doing, fighting and making up and fighting again. He doesn’t want his mother to see any more of it. 

He steps out into the warm late-summer evening, and when Will turns to walk out of Ealdor toward the fringe of forest, he follows. Will turns a few times along the way, like he’s not sure if Merlin is still there, and Merlin is annoyed by that, but not surprised. Will hardly lets Merlin out of his sight anymore. The argument yesterday had been partly about Merlin setting off into the woods without telling Will where he had gone.

Merlin needs time to be contemplative. He has to let the magic get out, sometimes, along with all the muddled frustration that nags constantly at him, spiking whenever Will does something particularly moronic. It’s a great comfort to go off on his own, stomp indiscriminately on twigs, and toss rocks into ponds with his magic. Will’s not there. 

Stupid Will. 

Stupid Will stops under one of the aspens the two of them frequent. There’s plenty of fallen trees around it, old ones that have been worn smooth and are pleasant to sit on. Will sits on one and starts picking apart the fraying ends of his shirtsleeves.

He looks a little ashamed, which is gratifying. Will's known about Merlin’s sorcery since Merlin was ten, and he knows no amount of protectiveness on his part can take away the inherent risk of Merlin being what he is. Or he _should_ know.

“What?” Merlin says, and it doesn’t come out quite as sullen as he meant it to.

Will exhales and rolls up his sleeves, as if to distract himself from ruining them. His forearms have freckles on them, Merlin had noticed that earlier in the week when they were bringing in the harvest. Will had been determined to tie a bundle of wheat triple the usual size, and in struggling with it, displayed his arms to lovely effect. It made Merlin uncomfortable. It _makes_ Merlin uncomfortable. 

“Well, what?” 

Merlin has never used magic on Will, except tripping him with a root once; he hadn’t realized back then he could convince plant life to act on his grudges so easily. He wants to use it now though, wants to toss a pile of leaves onto Will’s head without having to bend down and get them. 

“I’m sorry,” Will says. “I’ve been a prick.” 

“Yeah.”

“Just.” Will reaches down into the dry leaves at his feet, stirs them around a little. 

“Just what?”

“Just wish you’d stop picking everyone else over me.”

Merlin had been about to go sit with Will on the dead tree, but it’s out of the question now. Earlier that week he’d spent the morning picking apples with Caelia, and Will had retaliated by speaking to him as little as possible for the rest of the day. They had agreed to leave it in the past, after a squabble, and Will bringing it all up again is too much to bear. 

“ _What?_ ”

“Come on, Merlin. I asked you to go fishing first and you went with Caelia anyway.”

“And because you didn’t get your way for once you had a big sulk about it.”

“That wasn’t sulking!” 

“Was.”

“Wasn’t.”

“Was,” Merlin says, and turns to leave, since Will deserves it. Will scrambles to his feet and comes over to grab Merlin by the arms. As soon as he’s prevented Merlin’s escape he lets go and crumples a little, mumbling something at the ground.

“What’d you say?”

“Said I was just... just,“ Will gives up on the sentence and scuffs his toe in the dirt. Then he grabs Merlin's shoulders and puts his mouth against Merlin’s. The gesture is almost too static and clumsy to count for a kiss at all. 

“Oh,” Merlin says stupidly, when Will moves away, looking incredibly flustered. Will is still a moron, but Merlin is suddenly inclined to forgive him, and smiles.

+

+

Merlin is tired, or he’s had too many drinks. His head is buzzing and he’s caught himself yawning ten times in the last five minutes.

It’s definitely just tiredness, actually, since if he’d had too many drinks he wouldn’t be reaching for another right now. Which is just to give him something to do, honestly. He would have gone to bed an hour ago except that Lancelot is still up, and it’s Merlin’s job to watch him.

Not that Lancelot is helpless; he’s obviously a master swordsman and his courtly manners put Arthur’s to shame. Just, he and Lancelot had been talking when they should have been sleeping, and Lancelot had said he wasn’t much of a drinker, he thought that anything that could make a person act quite unlike himself shouldn’t be trifled with. 

It was a noble sentiment, but it seemed to hint that Lancelot hadn’t got any alcohol tolerance, and he’s just been made a knight, so he’ll certainly be given half his weight in ale. Merlin can’t leave him by himself, where he might be drunk under the table and left on the floor. 

One of the kitchen girls grabs his hand, an irritating distraction from his important duties, and a reminder that walking is overrated and makes him dizzy. Merlin follows her into the rows of people dancing to the reel that’s ringing through the hall. Gwen had danced a few songs with him at beginning of the night, and after that passed him around to her friends, who have now labeled him a good dancer and will not leave him in peace. 

He looks for Lancelot over her shoulder once they switch places in the dance and sees him standing with Sir Leon, watching Sir Balan arm-wrestling his brother. Lancelot catches Merlin looking and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling.

He’s beautiful, maybe the most beautiful man Merlin’s ever seen. It’s not the first time Merlin’s thought so, but he's usually too sober not to immediately crush the thought. Tonight he is not sober. He lets himself savour a memorized image of Lancelot’s smiling face as the dancers step through the turns, and his partner tugs on his hand a few times when he gets out of rhythm. 

When he finally escapes from the reel, he walks over to a table near the knights, where the stable boys are sitting. Winifred, the loudest of them, and Merlin’s favourite, is drinking straight from a pitcher.

“Hoi,” Winifred says, grinning, and Merlin sits down across from him. His feet are delighted with his decision to stop using them, and he sighs extravagantly. 

“I know. Bloody exhausting, isn’t it?” Winifred says, and takes an energetic gulp from his pitcher to emphasize his point.

“Sir Tor seems to be alright,” Merlin replies, grabbing an unsupervised flagon that’s sitting within reach and gesturing at the knight, who is standing on the table next to them with a drink in each hand, wailing. The wailing is actually a song, it turns out, and the lyrics have something to do with a wandering knight soliciting sexual favours from progressively uglier ladies. Merlin eventually gives up on straining to identify consonants in the slurred melody and takes a sip from the flagon. It’s cider. 

“Better hope that cup wasn’t Sir Tor’s,” says Winifred. “God knows where his mouth has been.” Merlin struggles not to choke on the drink. 

Then a hand claps him on the back and he _does_ choke on it. Lancelot drops down on the bench beside him, oblivious to the damage he’s caused.

“Ready to go?” 

“When you are!” 

“I am. Better sleep for an hour or so, don’t you think?” Lancelot throws an arm around Merlin’s shoulder and laughs, loudly. Merlin hauls him upright before his ear can be further abused, and Lancelot sways on his feet for a moment. He’s less wasted than what Merlin expected, actually, and Merlin manages to thread him through the clusters of people in the hall with only minor stumbling. 

Outside, it is so quiet that Merlin’s ears ring. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, combined with a little dizziness and Lancelot with his lovely eyes so nearby. It's getting hard to determine causes and effects. Merlin shakes his head, willing it to clear, and Lancelot waits politely, as if he’s the one doing the supervising.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Okay."

Then Lancelot starts up the stairs up to Gaius’s tower at an alarming speed, and Merlin follows, panting.

Lancelot seems unaffected by his vicious pace, to start with. Then he stops completely to catch up on breathing and Merlin runs into him. Lancelot turns around and helpfully plants a hand on Merlin's chest, and Merlin is dangerously close to going arse-over-tit down the whole flight of stairs, except that one of Lancelot’s biceps is in grabbing distance.

Lancelot starts laughing at being used as an anchor, and then tips forward dangerously, and they clutch at each other for a wobbly moment, giggling. 

Merlin had found Lancelot handsome from the beginning and almost let himself pine; directly after he had firmly resolved not to _make things odd_. Lancelot, still laughing, doesn't look like he thinks this is odd, but Merlin doesn’t want to take chances, so he lets go of Lancelot's arms, and stays ahead of him the rest of the way to Gaius’s. 

They reach the spare room Lancelot's staying in, and Merlin lingers at the threshold when Lancelot he goes inside. He’s not sure why—he just—he isn’t quite tired. It's _not_ odd. He swears it isn't.

At least, not until Lancelot turns back around after a few steps to stare at Merlin with his dark doe's eyes. It’s a heavy look, and a distant part of Merlin’s intellect warns him that he ought to feel uncomfortable under it. Before he can consider this, Lancelot comes back to the doorway and lifts his hands to cradle Merlin’s face.

There is a tenderness in his hands despite the callouses on the palms, and Merlin struggles to process the input of his senses. He had not thought to plan for the possibility of _Lancelot_ being the one to make things odd. His heart is pounding now, and he wants something he doesn't let himself think too specifically about.

“Thanks for looking out for me,” Lancelot whispers.

His voice is soft and rough, like his hands, and together they are too much to ignore. Working on some old instinct, Merlin's hands move to Lancelot’s waist, and then Lancelot kisses him, a soft, chaste press of lips.

“Sleep well, Merlin," he says, after. And Merlin does—at least, he drifts off easily—pleasantly drunk and replaying the memory of Lancelot’s gentle hands and cool, chapped lips.

+

+

Merlin kisses Freya, and she kisses him back, long and sweet and sad. They are both shaken in the wake of it, but Merlin only realizes he’s been crying when Freya unlaces their hands and pushes the tears off his face with his face with trembling fingertips. 

Then she kisses him again, and he feels it all the way down his body. He’s not sure if the adrenaline left over from almost being caught is making everything sharper or if it’s just because it’s been so long since anyone kissed him. It’s... a _lot_. When she swings a leg over his so she’s in his lap and bites down on his lip, he can only lean into the stone behind him and sigh. 

He digs his fingers into the dirt floor until she grabs his hands and puts them on her waist. Her torso is shaking under his palms, and that gives him pause, makes him lean his head sideways and back a little to look at her face.

Freya takes this as an invitation to kiss his neck, which is incredibly distracting; it takes him a minute of it to remember that he was going to speak. He jerks back a little further, enough for her to notice.

“Freya.”

“What?” She looks at him with wide eyes.

“Is this... I mean... are you. Sure?” She tilts her head to the side. “I mean, are you maybe, say, emotionally, just—and this is just, just—hey!” Freya cuffs him gently on the shoulder. 

“Merlin.” She leans down over him, rolling her hips a little as she does it, and Merlin has to take an extra breath in. “I just like you. And I’ve got to make the best of the time I’ve got. Since everyone wants to kill me so badly” She kisses him again. and for a few minutes, neither of them remember that they are hiding from the law in a tunnel that stinks of mildew.

When they break apart again, Freya seems disheveled, which is notable, since she’s been living in a dark crevice wearing rags. Her cheeks are pink, and her hair is a disaster. Merlin didn't know he'd mussed it up so badly. For his part, Merlin can’t find his jacket, he realizes he’s half on top of it now, and balls it up under his head so he can lie down. 

Freya flops down beside him. She’s a few feet away, but he can hear her breathing hard. Merlin looks up at the ceiling, feeling something tight and warm in his chest.

“What are you,” Freya coughs to clear her throat, “what are you smiling about?” 

“Nothing! I mean, I liked it?” Merlin says honestly, turns onto his side to grin in her direction.

She wrinkles her nose at him fondly and puts a hand on his cheek, anchoring them together in the flickering dark. Her eyes are soft, and unthinkably pretty, and he can tell she’s thinking kindnesses at him; _you are not a monster either, Merlin_. 

He knows that, of course; at least most of the time he does. He’s got Gaius, after all. But it’s something else entirely coming from someone who likes him like _that_.

Merlin can feel himself becoming infatuated, and he decides he won’t fight it, this once. 

+

+

“We’ll do it!” Merlin says, leaping to his feet, and leans down to get the dagger he knows is in Gwaine’s right boot. Gwaine looks at him with admiration bright in his eyes, and takes his dagger from Merlin’s hand, leaning to whisper in his ear.

“Trust me.”

Gwaine had been bragging about his skill with knives, possibly to impress the barmaid, who’s a particularly stunning young woman at least six feet tall, with a cream-colored braid like a crown around her head. A stout man (Gwaine had pissed him off before today, probably) had demanded a demonstration, and Gwaine told him to name the challenge. Apparently, the challenge was pinning a man to a wall from ten feet, and not killing him. Actually, the stout man hadn't said anything about not killing the man, and in retrospect, maybe Merlin should have stayed in his seat.

No. Merlin’s not concerned, not _that_ concerned. He mutters a protective spell under his breath, something to make him bleed out a little slower, in theory, and walks over to the nearest wall. He adjusts his jacket, trying to create some empty sleeve under his arm, and then has a better idea.

“Cheating!” the stout man howls, when Merlin takes his jacket off and ties it around his waist.

Merlin grumbles and throws it to the ground, and then looks at Gwaine, whose got his tongue bitten between his lips and a worrying squint in his eyes. 

This was a bad idea. Merlin did not go to taverns, before Gwaine. They’re loud, and smelly, and he hardly earns a large enough wage to justify spending it on cheap ale that’s been marked up to sell it by the tankard. And now, there’s _this_.

Gwaine throws before Merlin can brace himself, and there’s a loud thunk in his ear as the dagger sticks in the wall beside his neck. He jumps away from it, instinct kicking in belatedly, and finds himself stuck. The knife has pinned his neckerchief to the wall, hard enough that when Gwaine suddenly appears beside him and wraps him in a vicious victory hug, it strangles him a little. He beats Gwaine on the shoulder, which takes longer to get the point across than it really should.

“Oh, sorry!” Gwaine wrestles his dagger out of the wood and then hugs Merlin again. He’s warm and smells of ale all over, and Merlin laughs and claps him on the shoulder, more gently. 

Then the barmaid is there, and Gwaine looks delighted with himself, until she tells him he had better “take his friend and get out, Sir Knight, there’s no dagger-throwing allowed here.”

His disappointment is short-lived, since it’s such good weather outside, and Merlin takes him over to the sheep-pen, a lovely little enclosure with a mossy rock wall around it, to distract him from the rejection. They sit on the wall to look at the sheep and the sunset behind them. Merlin tucks his legs up under his chin, and Gwaine dangles his over the wall and into the pen. A few of the ewes come up to Gwaine, probably since he’s always feeding them apples.

“If only women liked me so much,” Gwaine says wistfully, playing with the floppy ears of his closest admirer.

“They might, if you were a bit less of a handful.” 

“They might, at that. Have you got your eye on any lasses?” Merlin shakes his head. Gwaine hums, and pets the nose of one of the sheep. “Perhaps you’re one for the lads then? Commendably pagan of you, Merlin. I knew I liked you.” 

“You like me because I enable your poor decision-making!” 

Gwaine puts on a wounded look and clutches at his heart. “Absolutely not! At least, it isn’t just that. You’re a good friend.' He plants his hands on the wall beside him and rocks forward on them, hair flopping down beside his face. "Most people think they are, but they’ll get tired of you eventually.” He looks sideways at Merlin. “I get the feeling you refuse to give up on anyone, even the stupidest of us.”

“Hmm.” Merlin looks into the sunset. His heart threatens to explode with affection.

“Besides that, your interesting fashion choices are very convenient for me. What’s this for usually for, anyway?” Gwaine reaches out to touch Merlin’s neckerchief. Merlin shrugs, and Gwaine reaches around his neck to untie it. 

He bumps into Merlin in several places as he does it, his elbow hitting Merlin’s chest, his thigh brushing Merlin’s ankle, his wrist on Merlin’s collarbone. Merlin tries to ignore that it makes his heart pound, but he’s lonely, and a little drunk, and Gwaine is undeniably handsome. When he gets the neckerchief off and wraps a hard, warm hand around Merlin’s bare neck, Merlin tilts his head fractionally into the touch.

Something flashes in Gwaine’s eyes—surprise, maybe—and then he bends his head to kiss Merlin's mouth. Even though he tastes strongly of alcohol, the kiss is lovely; Gwaine's an excellent kisser even with obviously reduced motor skills. There's tongue, but not too much, and Merlin thinks he might be able to lose himself in it, but he can’t. He can't. He shifts away clumsily, trying not to fall off the wall.

Gwaine raises his eyebrows in a silent question and Merlin feels a sudden dread. Everything is doomed to be awkward for ever, and it’s his own fault for being pathetic, and Gwaine’s for being loud and kind and handsome. Gwaine just shakes his head and looks at Merlin knowingly. 

“Ah, I see. Just the _one_ lad, then.”

Merlin looks at his feet. He hadn’t thought his pining after Arthur was obvious, but he was clearly wrong. His stomach feels tight, the warm air around them is suddenly a torment. Then Gwaine elbows him, bumping the thoughts out of him.

Merlin looks sideways from under his fringe. Gwaine gives him a crooked smile, and a wink.

“It was only a guess, and I’m only right because I know you so well. Unfortunate of you to pick such an insufferable man to fawn over, Merlin. Just say the word, I’d be happy to knock him on his arse.”

Merlin laughs. If only he'd had the good sense to fall in love with Gwaine.

+

+

  
Arthur’s wine cup has been empty for several minutes and he hasn’t complained about it. It’s infuriating. Merlin ignores the cup intently, hoping perhaps to be yelled at.

The arrival of Christmastide is the first significant event after Uther’s death; Merlin hopes it will be a sort of catalyst, and crack and Arthur out of his listlessness. The empty wine cup is one of many experiments, beginning this morning with dropping Arthur’s fresh shirt on the vaguely sooty floor. That had only resulted in an absentminded frown from Arthur. Merlin can do better. He will do better.

Arthur’s smiles are as frequent as they were before his father died, if not so carefree, and he appears stern and hale. He still eats well—he has to, in order to keep up the doubly rigorous training schedule he’s imposed on his knights and still run a kingdom. But he seems unconcerned with what it is he's eating, never makes special requests to the kitchen, sometimes doesn't even chide Merlin for nicking his dessert. He sleeps exactly as much as he’s decided he needs, about six hours per night—just enough, Merlin knows, to leave him always on the edge of tired. He’s still grieving, taking everything out on himself, and no one is able to see it, and so Merlin is left trying to calculate how to manage him. 

Arthur finally notices the cup, and shoots a glare at Merlin. Merlin fills it to the brim, heartened, and then goes to the kitchens to refill his pitcher with wine, buoyed up with his success.

Here he gets sidetracked. The cook needs hands to get more quail out on the tables, and he likes to stay on the right side of anyone who wields such a big wooden spoon. If they’d chosen some larger animal as the meal’s feature it would require less courses; but Merlin is regrettably not in charge of planning these things. When he finally returns to Arthur's seat, he's told that the King has already retired. 

For once, Arthur’s decision makes sense. It’s better for the king to leave at the apex of the party, so he can take responsibility for getting everyone cheerfully drunk but not for getting them to behave like idiots. 

Merlin starts jogging in the direction of the Arthur’s chambers, and then makes himself slow to a walk. It's been weeks since Arthur's harassed him for being late, and heckling Merlin for his failures until things escalate into horseplay is one of very few outlets for Arthur’s emotions. It would be cruel to deprive him of the opportunity.

It turns out that Arthur is not in any state to heckle. He’s lying in bed, fully clothed; Merlin can tell he’s off his face before he can tell why he knows. Possibly it’s that his head is lolled fractionally further back on the pillows than could really be comfortable. Besides that, one of his boots is still partly on, as if he’d tried to take it off and realized the task was too difficult part way through.

Merlin is confused as to how exactly Arthur could have gotten into such a state between the banquet hall and his bed until he sees a pitcher on the table. Its presence is inexcusable, since sneaking extra mead to Arthur’s rooms is Merlin’s responsibility, and Merlin had reserved it as a sacred reward for disappointing Uther. 

He lifts the offending vessel and finds it nearly empty. He wants to whack it against someone’s head, to punish them for being so careless with Arthur’s well-being. Why would anyone bring Arthur alcohol when he is quite clearly too stupid to be responsible with it? He sets the jug back down with a thump, and Arthur is roused out of his stupor by the sound.

“C’mere,” Arthur flops one of his hands off the edge of the bed, in a pitiable imitation of a beckoning wave.

Merlin goes to him, and wrestles off the one boot, since the asymmetry is offensive. Arthur is still gesturing at him when he's done, so he walks to the head of the bed, looking down on Arthur with amused pity that he does not try to keep out of his expression. 

“C’mere.” Arthur says, again. He sounds a little bit petulant, like a child, if the child had very irresponsible parents who forgot to water down his ale. Merlin tries to sit on the edge of the bed, which is the closest he can reasonably get. As usual, Arthur has not thought through the logistics of his plan; he’s already only half on the bed, so there’s just a sliver of it left for Merlin, and Merlin has to shove the side of his hip into Arthur’s ribs to fit.

“He would be... he would be angry. With me,” Arthur says. The words sound mushy.

“ _He’s_ not here,” Merlin says, and regrets it right away. Uther’s not here because Merlin killed him. In fact, Merlin is indirectly responsible for Arthur drinking himself into a stupor.

“No,” Arthur says, and he sits up a little in bed, making it so that their faces are close together. He wraps a hand around the back of Merlin’s neck and holds him in place.

Merlin should pull away, probably, say something dismissive and tuck Arthur into bed, but he can’t. Arthur’s eyes are dewy and he’s breathing a little heavily, almost panting, like he’s gearing himself up for something.

Merlin was never all that sharp to these things, and he’s still not ready for it when Arthur shoves himself up and pulls Merlin’s mouth onto his. It’s roughly done, since Arthur is awful at judging his own strength when he’s tipsy—their mouths come together too hard and fall apart too quickly.

Arthur drops back onto the pillows, half propped-up on his elbows, somehow forgetting to close his mouth. He looks stupid, and _ravished_. 

No, Merlin corrects himself, stupid and _drunk_. Guilt gives him a stinging slap and he jumps out of it’s reach, off the bed and onto his feet. Arthur might not even really want to kiss him, might just be reaching for the closest human being. Might just want to do the least kingly thing he can manage and bed a servant.

Arthur’s mouth opens a little more. He’s hurt. Confused. Merlin can’t look at him like that so he speaks to the bedpost.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. You're drunk.” 

“M'not,” Arthur says. He lets his arms slide to his sides and flops back down, eyes unfocused. He lifts a hand to push the fringe of hair straight up off his forehead. It looks quite ridiculous. 

Then, “I’ve wanted...” Arthur inhales. “He’s not here to stop me and I...” He covers his face with his hands and mumbles into his palms, “I always—” 

This is drunken prattle and not a revelation, but _always_ is a heavy word and it stuns Merlin. His legs feel numb, and he can only stand there and keep looking at Arthur, who does not take his hands off his face. 

Merlin’s head eventually starts to hurt, and his lip too. Maybe it’s bruised. He’s had enough of watching Arthur be sorry for himself, and since leaving him to stew in self-pity alone is unacceptable, he takes the other option.

Arthur’s wardrobe has plenty of perfectly acceptable night-shirts, but Merlin knows which is the best, and he takes that one. Besides being the softest, it will piss Arthur off in the morning, maybe even enough to express his feelings. There are also plenty of options for hose, thanks to Merlin's own exceptional organization where laundry is concerned. He takes off his boots and his shirt off before he notices the unbolted door. He runs across the cold floor barefoot to bar it before he finishes changing into the clothes. 

When he gets back to the bed Arthur has rolled away onto his side, like he intends not to notice Merlin, so Merlin is forced to sit on the bed and put a hand on the round corner of his shoulder.

“Arthur.” 

Nothing. Merlin rolls his eyes as hard as he can, and sighs melodramatically. Arthur writhes, so the top half of him is facing the ceiling.

“Go ‘way.”

“No. Move over.”

Arthur frowns at the ceiling like the suggestion is deeply offensive. 

“Well you kissed me, you clot, don’t you want me here? I’ll go if you want, but if you consider that I’ve fallen asleep on your elbow at least nine times, and that’s not even counting the—“

“Shut up,” Arthur mumbles, and flips up the corner of the coverlet.

+

“Oh _God_ ,” Arthur says, when the sun hits his face. Merlin had not closed the curtains.

“Yeah. Next time don’t drink a whole pitcher by yourself, you moron.” Merlin is sitting up against the headboard, legs crossed, reading a book that is definitely not his.

“Merl—what are—did you _sleep_ here?”

“Yeah. Figured you’d experience a great deal of torment and pining when you remembered kissing me. So I saved you the trouble.”

“I kissed y—oh, _God_.”

“Yeah. It was awful. Really embarrassing for you. I’m thinking of sending sympathy gifts to several ladies—ow!”

Arthur sets down the pillow he’d weaponized and the bed creaks as he flops down onto his back again. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin sees him shove his fingers through the front of his hair. It’s not effective, but he’s gorgeous even with his hair sticking up.

Merlin puts down the book and shifts a little so he's sort of facing Arthur.

"Hey," he says it quietly, so Arthur will know he's serious, "I'd still rather it was you than anyone else."

Arthur's expression softens minutely, and there's a beat where neither of them move or breathe. Arthur starts to say something, and Merlin hovers a threatening hand over his mouth.

"Shh. Don't lie and ruin it."

Then Merlin leans down over the pillow and presses his mouth softly to Arthur’s lower lip.

This one is much better. A a proper first kiss, in Merlin’s opinion. He drags it out into a set of longer kisses, winding his fingers lazily into Arthur’s tragic hair. Arthur licks into Merlin's mouth in a way that demonstrates considerable improvement, and struggles to pull Merlin down on top of him. Eventually he succeeds, and it's all very romantic for a bit, with both of them wrapped in sheets and sunlight.

Then there is a shout of outrage, followed by a wail of "that is _my_ shirt!" and Merlin, laughing maniacally, is punished for his crimes with a pillow to the side of the head.

+

_From land to land; and in my breast_  
_Spring wakens too; and my regret_  
_Becomes an April violet,_  
_And buds and blossoms like the rest._

**Author's Note:**

> On the story:  
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed the piece. I welcome any comments—I always look forward to hearing what you think!
> 
> I was hoping to have the final kiss take place in springtime to more explicitly fulfill the spring prompt, but Arthur's birthday/Uther's death is after Samhain and thus in the fall/winter. I think the pervading theme is one of renewal and growth regardless, plus, there's pictures with flowers!
> 
> On the art:  
> Meanings of the flowers chosen for the character portraits are as follows:  
> Yellow hyacinth - jealousy  
> Lily of the valley - purity  
> Rhododendron - danger  
> Orange rose - enthusiasm  
> Violet - devotion (and featured in the poem!)  
> You can see HQ versions of the artwork [here.](https://kritastrophe.tumblr.com/post/189841816086/merlin-character-portraits-for-april-violets-five/)


End file.
